


Light of the West

by 35Cancer_Chris



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Aerys Is His Own Warning, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Direwolves (ASoIaF), F/M, Northern Economic Development, Rare Pairings
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-30
Updated: 2021-01-04
Packaged: 2021-03-11 01:35:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,219
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28427130
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/35Cancer_Chris/pseuds/35Cancer_Chris
Summary: In a rare moment of good sense, Tytos Lannister wants only the best for his precious princess and will not give her hand to anyone unworthy of it. The Light of the West to come into her own as the Lady of a Great House and the river of history bends ever so slightly for it.In which Genna makes a much better match and discovers she quite likes the taste of power.
Relationships: Joanna Lannister/Tywin Lannister, Jon Arryn/Branda Stark (mentioned), Rickard Stark/Genna Lannister
Comments: 18
Kudos: 69





	1. Genna I

**Author's Note:**

> This is an AU that sprung up rather unexpectedly today so I decided to write it all down before I forgot. I really like Genna and she deserves much better than Emmon Frey.

**Genna**

_261 AC_

‘We will not name our son Brandon, there have been far too many of those already.’

Her betrothed turned sharply at her pronouncement yet he did not look truly shocked. Genna had the feeling that little truly shocked Rickard Stark. He moved closer to her, looking down at her form with those intense gray eyes, so light they almost shone like silver. She must look ridiculous to him, wrapped in multiple furs and still rubbing her gloved hands for more warmth.

His own figure was quite striking, she was forced to admit. Even at six and ten, the same as her, he stood a little over six feet with the long Stark face and grey eyes, more silver in his case. Unlike her golden brothers and numerous Lannister cousins Rickard was attractive in a rather savage way - his beard was particularly impressive, covering the lower half of his face yet it neatly trimmed around all edges, making him look older than he was. His shoulders were broader than what she was accustomed to, most Northmen were, she’d noted, and his chest broad and arms wide. Yes, he was very pleasing indeed, he’d do quite nicely as a husband.

‘It is nearly traditional at this point. There have been many Brandon’s over the years.’ The timbre of his voice was so deep it made _something_ unfamiliar shoot through her body. Yes, these Northmen were made large, tough and savage. One had to be to survive in this land that snowed even in the bloody summer.

Genna put on her best haughty expression - a rather good one in her opinion - and sneered. ‘Be that as it may, I prefer we pick another notable Stark. The next Lord of Winterfell should be far greater than all that came before, even you, my Lord.’ His beard twitched and Genna fought the urge to stamp her foot.

‘You’ve been avoiding me, my Lord.’ She tried again. He only nodded his acquiescence.

‘I did not know what to make of you at first. This betrothal only came about because I met your brother on the battlefield and he recognised that we have many similar goals in life. He suggested it, seemed to think your Lord father would like his only daughter to be a Lady of a Great House once more and I’m as good a choice as any.’

Gennna knew he was right. Tywin had made this happen and she would forever be grateful for it - ever since he had voiced his objection to the near betrothal with a Frey boy Tywin had been her champion. And rightly so, the only daughter of a Great House as wealthy and great as House Lannister deserved nothing less than being the Lady of another Great House if being queen was unattainable. It just so happened that Rickard Stark was the only available one of the picks of the lot: Mace Tyrell was still a toddler, Steffon Baratheon besotted with his Estermont betrothed and Hoster similarly with his Whent girl. Doran Martell would have been a good option, only 2 years younger than her but Tywin did not consider the Dornish worthy of her hand. Jon Arryn had married Branda Stark a few moons ago, another marriage borne of the blood of the War of the Ninepenny Kings.

Still, Genna was particularly unhappy that she was not Rickard’s first choice and the mere luck of a devastating winter chill had carried Lyarra Stark from this world too soon, freeing Rickard for another marriage. It did not bode well for this marriage if her betrothed still carried a flame for his formed betrothed.

‘Very well, my Lady. We shall name our sons anything other than Brandon.’ She looked up in surprise, Rickard was positively smiling. ‘No Benjen’s either,’ she added quickly, while he was in the mood to grant her a boon. ‘No Benjen’s.’ he affirmed.

Rickard studied her a little more, something like surprise in his eyes. ‘You’ve studied our histories, I see.’ This was delivered as more of a question than a statement.

‘I had to. When House Stark marries from the South they always marry from First Men Houses and there has never been an alliance between our two Houses in recorded history. I assumed your bannermen would not take kindly to an Andal becoming the Lady of Winterfell and attempted to prepare.’ He actually smiled at that, his teeth were straight and white and Genna felt a flutter in her stomach.

‘It will not be easy at all, my Lady-’

‘Genna,’ she quickly interjected. ‘You will be my Lord husband in a few days' time, please call me by my name.’

‘Genna.’ He sounded it out, testing the foreign name on his tongue. It came out rather rough due to his Northern brogue and she thought she quite liked it. ‘You may call me Rickard then.’ She nodded in acceptance.

‘This marriage will not be easy for either of us. As we speak, House Stark has been reduced to myself in the main branch. Lyarra - ‘ his voice faltered briefly at her name but he shook it off and continued. ‘Lyarra has passed on and so has Great Uncle Rodrik. Branda’s children will be Arryn’s so it is up to me, to us, to ensure the future of this House. The lords are not happy that I passed over their sisters and cousins for a Southroner.’

Genna had the feeling that Rickard was the type of man who did not coat his words in sugar. He wasn’t finished, from the way his chest expanded. ‘I would also like this marriage to be a success.’ He looked so earnestly at her that Genna could do nothing but nod reassuringly at him.

‘I wish the same, my - Rickard.’ And she truly did. This was not the match she would have made for herself, nor him by the looks of things but here they were. She was also a foreigner in this land and would rely on him almost exclusively to make the transition easier. They were so young though, to be entrusted with the responsibility of the largest region in Westeros and about to embark on a marriage as well.

‘That is why I am here.’

The godswood at Winterfell was nothing like the one in Casterly Rock, this ancient place of moist earth and decay. This was a place where followers of the Old Gods came to worship and expected those Gods to answer. It was three acres of forest within the ancient fortress and Genna felt that it was much the same as it was 8000 years ago when Bran the Builder raised Winterfell in this place. Trees stretched in every direction she could see: soldier pine, ash, chestnut, ironwood, oak and others she could not name yet but the true attraction was the Heart Tree. With its white bark and blood red leaves, she could see why the First Men considered this tree sacred. There was nothing quite like it anywhere, she would wager. It stood tall, taller than all the other trees around her and broad as well with a face carved into it, weeping red sap the colour of fresh blood - that face stared at her nearly aggressively and Genna drew her furs tighter around her. Never had she felt more like an intruder anywhere and the black pool beneath the tree didn’t make it seem any more welcoming.

Steeling her nerves, she declared ‘I wish you to teach me the ways of the Old Gods.’ Rickard stared at her in surprise. ‘I know there is no place for the Seven in the heart of the North and I do not want our future son to be seen in the light of his Andal mother, or to give your bannermen cause to question my place here, nor his and any of our other children.’

Rickard smiled again, even more broadly than before and Genna’s heart skipped a beat. He was ruggedly handsome, this Northman of hers and she found herself thanking the Mother for small mercies’ part of her had been expecting a beast of some kind. Her betrothed held out his large hand for her to take and Genna placed her own small and dainty one in his. He led her towards the Heart Tree where he had been standing before she interrupted him.

‘We kneel and bow our heads.’ He demonstrated the movement. ‘State your wishes before the gods, there are no intermediaries here. Simply ask for what you want.’

Genna looked down at the bone white roots of the great weirwood. _I wish to thrive here, I wish for this land to thrive and for our House to be stronger than ever_. It seemed to her the wind whistled a little louder through the branches.


	2. Rickard I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> During the celebrations of the Harvest Feast, the Starks receive yet more blessing from the Old Gods.

**Rickard**

_272 AC_

They poured forth from the Hunter’s Gate, a party hundreds strong and the largest gathering in recent history of Northern lords, their vassals and retainers, trying and failing at some semblance of silence. The rakkí and their handlers led the path through the wolfswood, stationed throughout the woods in the relay for the hunt.

Ric would be surprised if they even managed to capture anything, with the noise and laughter that filled the winter air. The sun shone dimly today, hidden by storm grey clouds the colour of Cregan’s eyes, lending a crispness to the air that only came with a Northern summer. This was the most important gathering he had held so far, in the 12 years he had been Lord of Winterfell. Much had changed in that time, stemming from his marriage to Genna and the grand plans they had began to enact as soon as they had tumbled out of the marriage bed on their first night.

These gatherings had become traditional, part of the Harvest feast and the activities that occupied his Lords as they haggled over marriage, trade and celebrated the prosperity of the North. It had been a particularly difficult beginning, requiring more diplomacy, tact and in some cases a brawl (the Umbers and Mountain clans were notorious for this) to cajole or bully the Lords into accepting his plans.

And what elaborate plans they were, covering everything from changing their crop-growing methods, establishing mining expeditions and eventually extracting the minerals found in the North. The building of a canal had caused great outrage amongst many of his vassals and that had expended nearly all his political, as well as Genna’s, acumen to get the agreement, finalise plans and get that started. His most ambitious plan, borne of a lot of thought in his youth as well as looking at the other kingdoms had him courting rebellion from the more northern houses and Robard Bolton had had a particularly nasty glint in his moonstone eyes at that time: all of that had been for naught though, he’d persisted and pushed any willing freefolk to join his realm on the more prosperous side of the Wall.

Apart from courting rebellion, led by the loud Umbers who had stormed out of Winterfell in a flurry of thundering horses and angry men, assimilating freefolk had been a danger to his very life. The clans followed strength, an old adage of the North, and that strength had to be demonstrated through martial prowess. Ric was glad that he had it, for he had been tested by numerous freefolk chief and then tested again by dealing with their demands and dealing with his Lord’s demands, settling them all and trying to forge a peace between people that had warred for over a thousand years.

The amounts of gold needed to fund it all were astounding but Genna's dowry was a great boon and Ric had done what no other Norther Lord before him had done and reached out to the Iron Bank: it was a great secret, passed down from Lord to heir and nearly lost at some point, that Cregan Stark had absconded with a vast amount of wealth and loot from his time in the South and when he served as Hand. The money had been deposited in the Iron Bank and had been sitting there for quite some time, the war had come in the deep of winter for anything other than basic rebuilding at the time and even the men they left behind in the South did not lessen the mouths that had to be fed. Cregan's hope was that his son would use that gold to start changing the fortunes of his people but Rickon Stark had not done so, for whatever reason and years later Ric found that the accumulated interest of all that gold made the Stark wealthier than even he had imagined. With that gold, Genna's dowry and a generous loan from his goodbrother Tywin, with light interests because the canal would enrich the Westerlands as well, they set out to change the North. The loan would take years to repay!

It was worth it.

Despite their loud protests and increasing demands 20,000 freefolk had settled throughout the North, most of them in the New Gift (generous donations of men,gold and grain to the Night's Watch and helped along by Tywin as the Hand but he had gotten it back as part of the North) but most dispersed throughout the land where they would do best. Looking at them now you wouldn’t think that a mere 5 years ago these people were at each other’s throats. However, Ric had come to learn, and so had many in the North, that the freefolk were not much different from them - sure, they had no castles, valued their freedom more than anything and had practices that were no longer practiced in other parts of the North but they were all First Men. The assimilation, while painful had even started a cultural revolution in the North, with the Old Tongue gaining prominence once again.

Harmond Umber and Torregg Giantsbane of the newly raised House Giantsbane had forged an unlikely friendship, after a drunken brawl had ended in a broken arm for Torregg and a fearsome scar of Harmonds face (he wore it proudly and told the tale of a battle worthy of the old heroes). They had forged a bond from that and Ric suspected that the two Houses would soon be joined through marriage between Jon Umber and one of Torregg’s daughters.

‘It’s a rather different site than when we were young.’ Ric hummed in agreement with his distant cousin Arthor Karstark. They rode silently together for the most part, observing their fellow Northerners and the heirs to all the houses riding together for another hunt. Ric liked Arthor, or Art as he privately called him. They were distant cousins and more importantly of similar temperament - they had grown up together in Winterfell and then Karhold, speaking of their grand plans for their Houses and the North. A lot of those plans had come to pass and there was still more work for their heirs Cregan and Rickard and their heirs after to change the lives of the North. ‘A welcome site, one we always talked about.’ The North had grown wealthy and prosperous and its people were content.

They regarded their heirs, all of them happy to be included in the activities of the day despite a slow start due to the disappointment of not being given coursers of their own. Rickard rode along quietly with Roose Bolton, a rather strange pair but both were quiet boys, closer to the cusp of their majority than his own Cregan. Maege Mormont, the younger sister of Jeor born to old Joramun’s second wife, shoved Jon Umber when he tried to take the lead of their little party. Wylis and Wendel Manderly were content to allow them to take the lead - this lot was already full grown and the futures of their Houses.

His own Cregan, brown haired and storm-eyed waved his hands enthusiastically as he recounted some tale, no doubt casting himself as the hero, to wide-eyed Willam Dustin who had no siblings, and Roger Ryswell who smirked knowingly at the tall-tale. A particularly curious addition to this hunting party was the blonde-haired, grey-eyed Jasper Arryn, the son of his cousin Branda and Heir to the Vale who had joined them a moon past to see the Seat of his Stark relatives. The boy was contemplative, looking around at the obviously raucous Northerners with something Ric couldn’t discern. He was respectful and Ric’s respect for the boy, and Branda’s parenting, had grown immeasurably due to his clear interest in his Northern heritage and the Old Gods. His second son, Edric, fondly known as Ned due to his younger sister’s efforts, had gotten along splendidly with his Arryn cousin for he too was proud of being a Stark - perhaps as consequence of his siblings teasing for he was the only one of Rickard and Genna’s pack that looked entirely like a Lannister, golden haired and beautiful, except for silver eyes like his own yet even those were flecked with gold like his uncle Tywin.

The hunt proceeded down the path laid down by the huntsman and bloodhounds early in the morning, clamorous and cheerful. Ric took in the sounds with content, grateful for all he had achieved that brought together the North like they had. The silence spread uneasily, expanding from the front of the ranks in spurts. This was stillness borne from the deep instinct of men in the face of the unnatural. An outrider broke the tranquility as he charged towards the back of the party; he was unbalanced on his horse, visibly shaken and breathing raggedly.

Ric spurred his courser forward to meet the man. Darren, he recalled faintly, a good horseman with a level head with a reputation of despoiling the scullery maids - Ric had saved him numerous times from Genna’s wrath due to his skill at hunting and tracking. ‘What's the problem?’ he inquired after Darren had stopped panting from his mad gallop.

‘The hart, milord! Something has slain it, the hounds are retreating. Something has scared them, milord.’ Rickard motioned for him to lead the way and the host followed them to investigate the disturbance. ‘Watch them.’ The words were as much for Rodrik Cassel as Cregan who looked ready to charge into the fray before his stern words stopped the fool boy - that one had a touch of the wolfsblood in him.

At a trot, it didn’t take them long to reach the riverbank, the hooves of their horses kicking up snow as they passed whimpering bloodhounds attempting to burrow themselves into the snow and their handlers at a loss of what to do. The blood pointed the way, a dull pink on the blindingly white snow, not unlike the banners of the Flayed man, that deepened as it narrowed back to the source. The stag was dead, neck turned at an unnatural angle and throat ripped out violently. Ric couldn’t imagine something large enough to kill a hart of ten like this, bears were not common in the wolfswood and no pack of wolves could have shredded skin and muscles so efficiently.

The party stole up on him as he quietly contemplated the grisly scene ahead of him. Cregan and Ned pushed their way to his side, Ned with a grim look and Cregan torn between excitement and fear.

‘What the bloody hell did that?’ No Umber could whisper if the fate of the land depended on it and Harmond was no different. His booming voice pierced the silence and reverberated through the hills on the other side of the river bank. ‘Nothing good, I fear.’ He motioned for the lords to spread about, drawing his longsword as he joined them. Ned and Cregan disappeared over one hill and Ric silently cursed - they’d hear from him once they were back in the castle.

A cursory search of the area revealed nothing but a disturbing hush over the normally teeming woods. There was a predator here that scared even the smallest creatures that made this forest home. Once, he thought he glimpsed a pair of golden eyes peering at him through the undergrowth but they were gone at a second glance and Ric turned his horse to return to the stag. At that moment, Cregan and Ned crested the hill with a beleaguered Rodrik following in their wake.

‘Father! Father, come and see!’

‘My lords, let us see what my sons have rotted out,’ he called and sent his horse into a trot, fording the shallowest section of the river and climbing the slightly steep hill. His boys had not disappeared down the other side.

‘Cregan, get away from it.’ Rodrik had drawn his sword, shakily leveling it at a great beast. Ric’s horse reared as he drew next to his sons and their sworn shield. He cursed loudly as he steadied the courser, murmuring soothing words until it had stopped.

It was clearly a wolf but nothing he had ever seen before. It was only slightly smaller than his courser, with bright yellow eyes, bared yellow teeth and grey fur a few shades lighter than Cregan’s eyes. This must be some sort of freak, surely, wolves did not grow to this size. Her hackles, for it was a bitch that looked ready to whelp any minute.

‘What is it?’ Rodrik Ryswell asked. There was a general murmur of agreement.

‘A direwolf.’ Ned stated firmly. Ric registered pride at his bearing. Just past his eighth name day Ned was unusually confident, a trait Genna said reminded her strongly of Tywin.

The Lord of the Rills said, ‘There hasn’t been a direwolf sighted south of the Wall in nearly two hundred years.’

‘I see one now.’ Ric replied. Rodrik shrank away from his stern tone. And it clearly was a direwolf, a miracle of the Old Gods. She stared at them, baring her teeth fearlessly. Before they raised more weapons, another great shape emerged from the woods behind the she-wolf. This one drew a collective gasp from them all - it was so dark it looked like a starless Northern night at the Wall, inky and rippling with the muscles coiled beneath its fur. Ric instinctively knew this one was male, clearly the alpha of a pack. Its eyes were a bright green, shining from it’s dark face. It stood protectively in front of the female - the size of its maw was so great it didn’t take a Maester to realise he had brought down the hart. They stared at each other, man and beast reaching a strange accord. He almost didn’t know what he was doing and Ric found that he had dismounted his horse and was approaching the direwolf.

‘Rickard!’ Arthur called out to him, dismounting his own mount and following him.

Ric motioned for him to stay back. ‘He won’t hurt me.’ This truth resonated within him deeply, as unshakeable as the Stark blood that flowed through his veins.

They approached each other, slow and deliberate. Ric threw his sword down, drawing shouts from his lords behind him. He was a man possessed at this point. All the stories and statues of direwolves in the crypts of Winterfell would not have prepared him for the size of him - he was as large as a warhorse yet Ric didn’t doubt that he could bring down even a large bear if he put his mind to it. This was the animal on his banners, the lost power of House Stark. Finally, they stood opposite each other, the direwolf could easily look him in the eye and Ric was taller than six feet. There was something there, tickling the back of his mind. Suddenly, the direwolf bounded forward and nudged his chest with its large head. A crossbow bolt sailed over his head and embedded itself into the snow beside the she-wolf.

‘Enough!’ Ric gestured to his lords to stop - they looked ready to disobey him but retreated nonetheless. ‘They will not harm me.’ Cregan and Ned had leaped from their ponies as well, and all but run at him. They grabbed hold of their father, Cregan hesitantly reaching out towards the direwolf which bore his touch with no complaint. Ric didn’t even understand what was happening, no sane man would allow his children anywhere near a beast of this size and reputation but he knew no direwolf would hurt a Stark. At that moment, he made a split second decision.

‘We return to Winterfell.’ He turned and began to trek back to his horse. The direwolves followed him.

* * *

‘Arsa Ryswell is feeling rather smug with herself right now.’

Genna crossed her chambers towards the bed in the middle of the wide rooms. She had spent the better part of the day entertaining the ladies of the North which always taxed her because Northwomen were not given to spending the day sewing - they spun on the loom and when they inevitably tired of that they rode out to hawk. These were customs that his wife had struggled with at the beginning of their marriage, unaccustomed to the activity. She was also unprepared for how little a Northern wife relied on her steward to keep the castle running, attending to many details in person. This hadn't been a problem for long, with Ric travelling all over the North so frequently to spread their plans and wrestle freefolk and mountain clans into submission Genna had taken the reigns at Winterfell and steered it well - Ric trusted his wife to keep his castle and the North running in his absence and she did it with a deft hand. The old Maester Walys had taken exception to a woman with such free reign over her lord husband's castle, his persistence had seen him return to to Winterfell from overseeing the progress of the canal to the 'grey rat' gone and a new Maester on his way from Oldtown. When he asked, Genna had simply said they had differences and left it at that and the savage gleam in his wife's eye had Ric deciding not to bother, the fortress was still standing and running smoothly and peace with his wife was more important. It certainly helped that the Citadel had seen fit to send Hothor Umber, who had completed his training to be a maester and earned numerous links, defying expectations from everyone, to replace the disgraced Walys and he knew a thing or two about dealing with determined women; Ric had met the man's aunts and sisters, after all.

She had assimilated so well into the North that Ric sometimes forgot how much time Genna spent in the library, reading up on Northern customs and learning from Old Nan when books did not have the answer. Her patience and hard work had been rewarded with acceptance from the North and this was in full display this morning when she led the women in morning prayers in front of the Godswood. 'I feel less like an outsider now,' she had confessed to him long ago, after the birth of their only daughter Lynara. He was truly blessed with such a wife, not many highborn Southroners would willingly abandon the Seven for the ways of the Old Gods, especially one so highborn as a mainline Lannister. She had simply shrugged when he pointed this out, 'I never much cared for the Seven. Their devotions are long and demand far more coin than the gods must need.'

Ric put the poker in its place and smiled at his beautiful wife. They rather scandalously shared bedchambers, the warmest in the castle for his southron wife - he hated the heat but Genna wouldn’t do without it. He had already shed his furs, riding leathers and inner tunic. He approached his wife to help her out of her dress making quick work of it, fingers deft from many years of practice at this. He murmured softly, ‘It’s a very good match.’ She rumbled in agreement.

‘I quite like the Barbrey, she’s a quick wit, if prone to holding a grudge but we can mould her into the perfect Lady of Winterfell and the North. Arsa also tells me Rodrik is considering betrothing Bethany, the older girl, to Roose Bolton.’ She shuddered involuntarily at this. Ric shared the sentiment, the Dreadfort was not a place he felt anyone but a Bolton would call home.

‘Rodrik has outdone himself. The future Lords of two of the greatest Houses in the North shall be cousins. Of course, this presents either an opportunity or a great problem in the future for us, probably Cregan.’ It was slightly troubling. In the entire history of the North the Starks and the Boltons had never wed and even this potential maternal connection did not sit well with him. This generation of Ryswells were rather grasping, it seemed.

'Lynara likes her as well and we both know how difficult she can be with strangers.' His third child and only daughter also had a touch of the wolfsblood. She was a Stark through and through, with a long face rendered soft with Lannister features and brown hair and his silver eyes. Lynara was a trial for her lärarinna for she was determined to do everything her brothers did, which included training in the yard now that Cregan and Ned were doing so. Ric didn't have the heart to stop her and even Genna's attempts bore no fruit - they were fortunate that she had agreed to attend all her lessons with the lärarinna and maester Hothor.

Genna stepped out of the dress and moved to sit at her table, ready to brush her long golden hair. It was a ritual at this point, Ric loved to watch her as she did it. After a few strokes she spoke, ‘Joseth Reed is preaching to anyone that will listen that the Old Gods are with the Starks and the North. I couldn’t have spread the word better myself.’ Genna had come up with the ingenious idea of paying bards and minstrels to travel the North, singing praises to the Starks for their foresight in improving the lives of the smallfolk - it was a roaring success, the smallfolk loved them more than ever and one enterprising bard had earned himself a fat purse of gold for a new ballad, ‘The Light of the North’, to help the people see Genna in a better light.

‘Is it wise to have direwolves in our home, Ric?’ She rarely lost her composure but even Ric could see that this had been on her mind since their hunting party had returned this afternoon with wagons laden with a stag, small game and another wagon with a pregnant direwolf. The myths of the North were just that for her, she hadn’t grown up with Old Nan weaving tales of Others, Ice Spiders, direwolves and Northern magic.

‘They’re meant to be here.’ His tone was firm and she sighed before putting the brush down and getting beneath the fur covers. Ric joined her, wrapping his arms around his wife as they did every night they stayed in the same castle. ‘She’ll welp soon, perhaps even tomorrow.’

Ric had a feeling that Winterfell would soon be home to as many direwolf pups as he had children.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Forgive the exposition but it's been 11 years since the events of the first chapter and I had to cover a lot of the changes (I still didn't even manage to slip them all in)
> 
> Rakki is the Old Norse word for Rache, a type of hunting dog. I've settled on Old Norse for the Old Tongue of the First Men.
> 
> A hart of ten is a stag with ten antlers.
> 
> lärarinna - Swedish word for governess. Clearly they had no septas teaching the highborn in the North so I came up with something.

**Author's Note:**

> And here it is! I'll post snippets of their life together, in no particular order.
> 
> Genna is described as being shrewd in the books and I liken her to Joanna in a way and while that doesn't really come out here (she's a foreigner about to become the Lady of Winterfell, she would be nervous) later instalments in the life of Rickard and Genna will show that a little more.
> 
> AS Genna has said, there will be no Brandon or Benjen Stark in this (what is the point of an AU if the characters are all the same?) but I'm toying with the thought of keeping the names Eddard and Lyanna (they'll definitely be different from their canon counterparts) but I haven't decided.
> 
> Feedback is greatly appreciated.


End file.
